Those Winged Tears
She sat upon the bed looking like a work of Art
The sun was just rising high in the sky
when I returned to my rooms,
where she sat looking like a work of art,
all gilded,
In the light of the Sun,
she looked to the west,
when she had once called home.
Now she sat in my bed
wearing a white slip,
with a white bone corset over it,
her hair in disarray.
I had not allowed any maids access to my rooms,
for fear that she would curse them.
As was her way,
she had never meant to be tied down by walls and doors,
by marble and oak,
but I had never felt for
anyone the way I felt for
her.
I couldn’t be parted
from her.
So I had tied her to me in the worst way
possible
clipping her wings
making her depend on me
but I never doubted the power she held within herself,
the anger that lay dormant
in her eyes,
as I cautiously approached,
my sparrow.
